The cattleman's eyes took on their stony, snake-like look. His hand did
not move by so much as an inch toward the scabbarded revolver at his
side.

"All right. Come a-shooting. I see you've got a gun under that pillow."

The weapon leaped into sight. "You're right I have! I'll drill you full
of holes as soon as wink."

Weaver laughed contemptuously. "Begin pumping, son."

"I'm going to take my sister home with me. You'll give orders to your
men to that effect."

"Guess again."

"I tell you I'll shoot your hide full of holes if you don't!" cried the
excited boy.

"Oh, no, you won't."

Buck Weaver was flirting with death, and he knew it. The very breath of
it fanned his cheek. During that moment he lived gloriously; for he was
a man who revelled in his sensations. He laughed into the very muzzle of
the six-shooter that covered him.

"Quit your play acting, boy," he jeered.

"I give you one more chance before I blow out your brains."